Contents

 

Cover

 

Title Page

 

Dedication

 

Chapter 1 - False Starts

 

BARELY OF AGE

 

MARIN

 

THE FIRST RUNWAY

 

SAN FRANCISCO

 

AGENTS OF CHANGE

 

Chapter 2 - Early Modeling Years

 

THE BIG APPLE

 

PARIS, TAHITI, MILAN

 

THE FIRST HOMECOMING

 

MODELING AGAIN

 

Chapter 3 - The Mickey Years

 

MEETING MICKEY ROURKE

 

WILD ORCHID

 

BIRD IN A GILDED CAGE

 

PLAYING HOUSE

 

CALVIN KLEIN

 

CHRISTMAS WITH JOHN GOTTI

 

SHOT IN SANTA FE

 

BOXING AND A BIG SUR PROPOSAL

 

HONEYMOON TO HELL

 

FALLING FOR AILEEN

 

ON THE PSYCH WARD

 

THE SIMPSON SUMMER, CASES OF SPOUSAL ABUSE

 

NEW YORK FASHION WEEK, 1994

 

HITTING BOTTOM, HEADING SOUTH

 

EARLY SOBRIETY

 

LEAVING MICKEY

 

Chapter 4 - On My Own

 

MAKING AMENDS

 

SPORTS ILLUSTRATED AND THE HOLES IN MY HEART

 

PLUS-SIZE MODELING

 

DISCOVERING MY VOICE WITH OPRAH

 

NEPAL

 

MONKS IN MALIBU

 

GESHE GYELTSEN AND THE VOW OF CELIBACY

 

RECONNECTING WITH TSULTRIM

 

FINDING MY HEART TEACHER

 

LAST MEETING WITH MICKEY

 

Chapter 5 - A New Beginning

 

COMING HOME, MEETING MATTHEW

 

SEXUAL HEALING

 

SURGERY, PREGNANCY, JADE

 

ENDURING COLIC

 

ROUND TWO: BODY IMAGE AND WEIGHT GAIN

 

BIRTHING KAYA

 

COLORADO BOUND

 

Acknowledgments

 

Photo Section

 

About the Author

 

Credits

 

Copyright

 

About the Publisher

 

 

Chapter 1
False Starts

 

BARELY OF AGE

 

I could feel my sixteen-year-old breasts bouncing against the cool, soft silk camisole I was wearing, the whiskey I’d just downed burning in my throat, and my knees nearly buckling with every step I took down the rickety tabletops lined up to form a makeshift runway. Phil Collins’s “Sussudio,” the sound track for my walk, was pulsing to the beat of my heart and even shook the platform beneath my feet, making my gait even more unstable. My face was flushed with the realization that I was too young for men to be leering at my body, too young to be in this godforsaken bar. This runway was no place for anybody, even for a runaway scraping to get by.

Twenty bucks, I reminded myself. Twenty bucks, and tonight for the first time in weeks I can eat something that hasn’t been salvaged from a Dumpster. That thought kept me focused as I pivoted awkwardly in my kitten heels and made my way back down the line of tables. With every step I took, I dug deeper to find my dignity. I pulled myself taller, hoping my face reflected a calm I didn’t feel inside. Through the smoke, the blaring music, and the jarring catcalls, one thought pushed stubbornly past all the others: How in hell did I end up here?

Every life is filled with turning points, decisive instants that determine the direction we will ultimately take. Many such moments had already led me to this bar and my first modeling gig. And as I started to think back to where the journey first began, my mind flashed to a time a dozen or so years prior and a dozen or so miles away, back to San Francisco, the summer of 1973, and what was the original turning point.

MARIN

 

I was sprawled out on the grass in the little yard behind my family’s Clay Street flat, staring up at the gray sky. The lonely sound of foghorns echoed throughout the city. Almost everywhere else in America, August is hot, but in my hometown it was invariably dreary, cold, and overcast. I daydreamed as I lay there, fantasizing about a place my parents had talked about all summer, the sunny place we were moving to. It was somewhere, I was sure, that my family would be happier. Somewhere called Marin County. And though I hadn’t ventured there yet, I’d already invested a lot of hope in that place.

We were going to see our new house that day for the very first time.

For my parents Marin symbolized success. A short drive north of San Francisco, it’s where many affluent Californians live. Almost all the other attorneys where my father worked commuted from homes outside the city, as the suburbs were warm and bright, the schools were top tier, and the streets were safe. As I neared kindergarten age, my parents wanted to give my sister and me a chance to grow up away from the crime, the mist, and the cramped apartments that were the norm in San Francisco. Moving to Marin meant giving their children the best—more than they had been given. And it meant giving themselves and their marriage a second chance, too.

My parents were both from the East and had moved to San Francisco only so my father could go to law school there. I was born in 1968, just eighteen months after my sister Chrisse and just one year after Dad passed the bar exam. Money had been tight during those early years, which caused all kinds of stresses, but by 1973 my father’s career was finally starting to take off. In Marin we could have a house of our own, big enough for my sister and me to each have a room and secure enough for my parents to lay down roots. That sounded like heaven to me.

When Mom was ready to go, I slipped from my momentary reverie, clambered to my feet, and ran to the car. We were off to check out Greenbrae, a town right in the heart of Marin. We drove Mom’s yellow Volvo across the Golden Gate Bridge and up through the rainbow-painted tunnel on the other side. Every time we passed through that tunnel, Chrisse and I would count to three and inhale dramatically, competing to see who could hold her breath all the way to the other side. But on that August day it was as if we’d taken the whole ride with bated breath.

The whisper of promise in the air actually sent a tingle right through me. I thought about the new friends I’d make and all the open spaces in which I’d have to play. I thought about feeling warmth inside and out. And in the Volvo, as we climbed up a winding hill and turned onto Corte Lodato, I knew that my mother, father, and sister were deep in their own fantasies, too. Their silence told me that.

Chrisse and I both squealed with delight as the car rolled to a stop. There was a small knoll dotted with low-hanging oak trees in the center of the street; to get to the house, you had to drive slowly around it, making a wide circle so as not to clip the curb. I leaped from the backseat and raced to our door. I reached up and lifted the brass knocker that was shaped like a smiling dolphin.

I rapped on the door with that dolphin several times, until my mother said, “Carré, that’s enough!” I exhaled impatiently, fidgeting and listening for footsteps approaching from inside the house. When the door swung open, the owner greeted us. Introducing herself as Martha, she flashed a broad smile. She had pink frosted lips that twisted in a strange way every time she spoke. Chrisse and I were fascinated by her to the point of distraction, like Charlie Brown listening to his teacher, unable to understand a word she was saying.

We were finally given permission to explore, while my parents stayed behind to talk with Martha. Chrisse and I raced through the house and bolted out onto the back deck, where we were surprised to see an enormous yard, so much bigger than any yard we’d ever seen in San Francisco.

From the deck I could glimpse the pool my parents had promised. Separated from the house by a grove of oak and eucalyptus, it was in the shape of a kidney bean. As I ran toward it, leaving Chrisse behind, I saw that an old cover lay over the top, partly submerged in what looked to be murky brown water. The closer I got to it, the scarier it seemed. I felt a weird sense of dread as I inched nearer still. I circled the pool warily, my footsteps loud on the concrete that surrounded it. Taking a deep breath, I lifted the cover—and just as quickly I gasped, dropped it, and fled. The corpses of bugs, mice, and birds floated and bobbed in the filthy water below. The stench of death was overpowering. All the optimism I’d felt in the car ride there left me instantly. I didn’t like this place at all, with its cold, dark interiors and its foreboding pool. But the deal was already done. We were moving. This was to be our new home.

By the middle of September, we were settled in. I’d gotten the room my mom had promised to me—the one with an orange shag rug. It had a bunk bed, a bookshelf my dad had built, and a desk situated near a set of windows that overlooked a small garden alongside the driveway. From there I could easily see who was coming and going. I had one of those old reading pillows with armrests built into it, a soft yellow blanket and a tattered but much beloved, stuffed rabbit. I pressed rainbow stickers onto the ceiling next to images of shooting stars and flying unicorns. I had made the space my own. When I fell asleep at night, my new digital clock radio glowed, its steady green light offering reassurance from the darkness. I would have this clock for many years, its light a dependable guardian against whatever frightened me and its clicking a reminder that, like the hour, all fears ultimately pass.

One of the great draws to Marin County was the famed Marin Country Day School in nearby Corte Madera. MCDS, as it was called, enrolled students from kindergarten to the eighth grade and was one of the few private schools in the area. It was a mark of status for a family’s child to attend MCDS. But that wasn’t the only reason so many ­people, including my parents, struggled to pay the steep tuition. In addition to a great academic program MCDS offered students all the attributes of a close-knit community. What it didn’t offer, however, were the resources needed to deal with troubled kids. And my troubles at school, as it turned out, began very early.

With the start of our first term there, Dad headed back across the bridge every morning to a new job at a prestigious law firm. And when Mom wasn’t shuffling us off to MCDS and preparing for the birth of my little brother, Jordan, she worked part-time at Dominican College in San Rafael. Meanwhile Chrisse and I were adjusting in our own manner—and growing steadily apart in the process. Each morning when we were dropped off at school, we’d head our separate ways, a sadness befalling me as she’d quickly run off to greet her new friends.

Chrisse was almost instantly popular, whereas I was the complete opposite. And the comparisons that put a wedge between us didn’t stop there. She’d been a beautiful baby, but as she got older, she developed a bad overbite that had to be corrected with the infamous headgear of 1970s orthodontia. My teeth were better behaved, and so in the same way that her popularity made her my rival, my smile made me hers. We were close enough in age to have bonded very tightly when we were small and close enough to become intensely competitive as we got older.

Bad overbite aside, Chrisse always had an easy time making new friends. I was beyond shy, painfully introverted, and willing to do whatever I could to remain unnoticed. While girls like my sister slid easily into and out of cliques, I would break into a cold sweat just thinking about the prospect of speaking to anyone I didn’t know. From the very start, my days at MCDS were filled with schemes to get out of class. I’d fabricate reasons to go to the nurse’s office—or, if necessary, do something that assured detention. While Chrisse was affable and excelled academically, I was angst-ridden and withdrawn to the point where my grades soon began to plummet. We seemed to move in tandem, just in opposite directions. Each of Chrisse’s successes was matched by one of my setbacks.

In retrospect I understand that we didn’t fall into this strange rhythm because we were close in age and were trying to define our individuality; we did so because we had each internalized our dysfunctional family dynamics in different ways. It was pretty obvious to all of us during those first few weeks in the new house that our move didn’t hold as much promise for my parents as we had secretly hoped it would. Their tensions still remained. As Dad drank and Mom found her own ways to check out, Chrisse turned stress and anxiety into performance. The worse things got at home, the better, more productive, and more accomplished she became. What drove her to succeed was the same thing that left me feeling overwhelmed with despair and sadness. She got A’s and made friends easily, while I slipped further and further into my own world, shutting out everyone and everything else.

However, there was one very real reason why adopting Chrisse’s strategy for coping couldn’t work for me: I had dyslexia.

The signs had emerged early. From the time I started school, it was clear to everyone that I wasn’t learning at the same pace as other kids. I just didn’t process information the way they did; I could learn quickly through song and rhythm, but the typical academic setting didn’t provide the opportunity for alternative methods like that. Things that other children seemed to understand readily went over my head. My teachers became increasingly irritated with me, assuming that I wasn’t trying hard enough—or, worse, that I was deliberately attempting to aggravate them. As it became more obvious that I was different, my shame and humiliation grew.

I can still recall that awful day when I was asked to stand in front of my first-grade class and recite the alphabet. It is so seared into my memory. I was terrified. I had no choice but to try. I made it through the beginning but then I began to make up the rest. The order of the letters simply eluded me. The classroom erupted in laughter. The childish jeers followed: “Carré doesn’t know the alphabet!” “Carré, you’re so dumb!”

I burst into tears. After that, I did everything possible to avoid being put into a humiliating situation like that again. I grew fiercely sensitive and even shyer than I’d already been. The last thing I wanted was the kind of attention that might lead to my being mocked. If I could disappear by hiding in a group, so much the better. This is certainly not a quality one expects in a future model.

It was my father who first discovered that there was a problem. He, too, had struggled with dyslexia as a boy, and he still has trouble with spelling as an adult. (That’s the story behind the unusual spellings of both my name and my sister’s.) One day he sat me down and gently asked a few questions. In a calm and encouraging voice, he walked me through the general concepts that he knew other kids my age were grasping. My answers confirmed that something was seriously amiss. So he took me to see the MCDS headmaster, Malcolm Manson. Mr. Manson arranged for a battery of tests, which ultimately revealed dyslexia. And on the advice of the learning specialists, I was told that I would need to repeat the third grade. It was a devastating blow.

That diagnosis marked me as a problem child not only for the school but for my family as well. Though my parents assured me over and over again that I wasn’t stupid or slow, I sensed that my dyslexia was now a stigma on all of us. We were no longer the perfect family. We never had been, of course, but the revelation of my disability somehow seemed to bring our imperfections out into the open. My problem had a name, and that name was on everyone’s lips. The most frustrating thing of all is that no one else’s problem had a name yet. But my parents’ problems were just as real as mine.

Thankfully, we recognize today that almost everyone’s family is dysfunctional in one way or another. And except for extreme cases of abuse, it’s usually not worth arguing about whose family is unhealthier. As is true for most ­people, my family’s particular dysfunctions shaped my life and the choices I would make for many years to come. I don’t hold my mom and dad fully responsible. They, too, had their own memories of childhood pain, complex memories they carried with them into their marriage and into their parenting. Of course, I knew nothing of that then.

My father, as I later found out, was the son of a man who’d narrowly escaped the Holocaust, though this truth about his Jewish heritage was hidden from my dad for years. My grandfather saw his Jewish identity as a liability and did everything he could to disguise that aspect of his being and of my father’s, too. Known by the very American-sounding name “Lee Otis” until the day he died, my grandfather never addressed the subject once, not even with his son. Sadly, instead of teaching my dad about his roots, my grandfather unwittingly taught him how to hide from the things that frightened him most. But what my grandmother did hurt even more.

My grandmother came from the Appalachian foothills of western North Carolina. Her name was Augusta Bay Young.

Bay, as she was called, was a devout Chris­tian Scientist, having converted to that faith when she was very young. Followers of this religion are most reluctant to see doctors or to be treated in the ways of modern medicine when they’re ill, preferring the power of prayer instead. Perhaps as a result of her refusal to seek medical help, two of my dad’s eight siblings died in infancy and one, Colleen, died at age seventeen.

Colleen had been born with cystic fibrosis, which in the 1940s meant near-certain death at a very young age. Miraculously, she lived until late adolescence, but due to Bay’s Chris­tian Science beliefs she was barred from taking any medication and subsequently endured years of unnecessary agony. My father and his siblings were torn, desperate to alleviate Colleen’s suffering while fearing that to do so would be to go against their mother’s wishes—and against God.

I have come to believe that a huge and unnecessary burden of guilt associated with his sister’s suffering and death, ­coupled with the legacy of hiding one’s true self, was at the core of the alcoholism that ruled my father’s life until he finally became sober in 1988.

While my mother’s family was small by contrast—she grew up with just one brother—oddly enough she lost this beloved sibling at a relatively young age, too. My uncle Ray fought in Vietnam and came home suffering from a serious case of post-traumatic stress disorder. In time he died of Guillain-Barré syndrome, which my mother always believed was brought on by exposure to Agent Orange. But my mother’s hardship didn’t begin and end there. My maternal grandmother, who went by the name Moonga, was mentally unstable throughout her life. She engaged in serial infidelities, was deeply depressed, periodically suicidal, had terrible boundaries and was estranged from the family for a long period of time, all of which left my mother perpetually yearning for something more.

As I see it, both of my grandmothers did tremendous damage to their children.

It is no wonder that when my parents met in college they fell in love very quickly. My father was just twenty-two years old and my mother only twenty. Both were truly longing for stability and happiness, and both wanted to raise a family very differently from the ones they’d grown up in. But what, more likely than not, attracted them to one another was a hint of familiarity each saw in the other. (My mom has often said that my father and her mother were two of the most depressed ­people she’s ever known.) So there they were: a young ­couple, both of whom had been reared in an atmosphere of silence, secrets, and inexplicable rules that had to be obeyed no matter what, trying to navigate an adult relationship. My father’s drinking and my mother’s withdrawal from him were predictable strategies for coping. They simply didn’t have the insight or the tools to change the dysfunctional blueprint upon which their marriage was built. But as dramatic as their stories are, they weren’t so unusual in Greenbrae, California, during the 1970s. Or anywhere else, for that matter.

So wearing the label “dyslexic” at age eight, when no one else was owning their labels—not even the adults—did nothing for my already fragile self-esteem.

We know so much more about learning disabilities today than we did then. Now kids with dyslexia have access to specialists and sophisticated treatments that were unimaginable just a few decades ago. We don’t confuse dyslexia with laziness or stupidity anymore, and techniques exist to help even severely afflicted kids keep pace with their classmates. But those techniques weren’t available to me or other kids in my generation. And that meant I would spend years dealing with the damaging consequences of having been called “slow” from an early age.

Being perceived that way robbed me of the little confidence I had. So at the start of my second year in third grade, I made a decision about myself: Since I was already different from other kids, I was going to define myself on my own terms. If I was going to be labeled at all, I wanted to be known as a rebel or a troublemaker. Even being called a loser, because I would not conform, beat being called slow.

Despite my status as an outcast, I ultimately developed my own way of making friends. By the time I was in sixth grade, boy-girl parties were all the rage—though only a few parents were “cool” enough to host them. My mom and dad were definitely not in that narrow set, but after some subtle and persistent pressure on my part they agreed to let me have what I promised would be a “small” mixer. For as long as I could remember, I’d been a very good manipulator, with an uncanny ability to exploit the insecurities of my predictable parents. I was especially good at working on my dad. When he wasn’t drinking, his guilt made him an easy mark. Extracting his permission to have a small group over on a Friday evening was contingent on getting him in one of these moments, and so I did. As I walked into the living room, his brows furrowed, his mouth set, and a sad, faraway look settled on his face. He loved me dearly, but he was so clearly uncomfortable in my presence. And though I would much rather have had his reliability, I accepted what I could get. I played on his apparent remorse for my own purposes, and I got what I wanted at the moment: my party.

After being excluded from so many things at MCDS, I took as much pleasure in making a list of the kids I wouldn’t invite as I did choosing the ones I would. I kept it to a group of five: three boys and two other girls.

Jared, Tyler, and Mitch were inseparable; they were a natural choice. Cathy and Kara were “in” girls, very popular, more likely to be friends with ­people like my sister than with me. But the promise of alcohol and a few hours’ break from their parents was too good to pass up. Plenty of us had already started drinking by the beginning of junior high; for kids like me, a party without alcohol was no party at all.

Jared was my first kiss, my first crush, the first boy who made my heart beat faster. He was short and pudgy, but cute and witty, too. He could charm kids, parents, and teachers alike with his fierce but strangely kind sense of humor. Unlike so many other boys his age, he never felt the need to be cruel to make a point or win a cheap laugh. Everyone adored Jared. I couldn’t wait to have him at my party, in my house, and to feel that he was mine.

As soon as I got home from school that day, I immediately went to work. With care and consideration, I pulled out the records I wanted to play, lining them all up in order: Van Halen I and II; the Police’s Zenyattà Mondatta, and the indispensable early-eighties party album, AC/DC’s Back in Black. And, of course, I made the drinks. Or, to be precise, the drink. Before my dad got home from work, I discreetly confiscated a fair amount of his booze from the stash he hid in the basement. I’d taken a little bit from each bottle, eventually mixing together vodka, gin, whiskey, and tequila in one giant mason jar that I stored in the back of my closet. Obviously, we weren’t drinking for taste. What mattered was the wicked buzz that this concoction was sure to deliver.

That basement liquor cache was always a source of tension—and, in a strange way, hilarity—for our family. My mother was determined to stop my father from drinking but wasn’t quite brave enough to throw the booze out. So she set up all kinds of silly traps, designed to make a loud noise or a huge mess if he (or I) broke into the supply. The traps were crude and obvious, and it made me laugh to think that she believed either of us would actually be deterred by them. They were much too easy to replace, making it seem as if we’d never been in the basement at all. Meanwhile the level of liquid in the bottles declined at a steady, unceasing rate. And as with so many other things, we never talked about either the bottles or the ineffective snares designed to keep us from them. I was my father’s daughter, and by the time I was twelve, I knew every one of his tricks. And I had his habit, too.

With the music and the beverages taken care of, I began pulling together my outfit: my Converse high-tops with their glittery purple laces, my crisp striped Lacoste shirt, and my brand-new Gloria Vanderbilts. It took me a few minutes of wrestling on my bed, flat on my back, to get the zipper up on those skintight jeans. Underneath it all I wore an overstuffed bra, having carefully smoothed out any lumps. One quick look in the mirror and I was ready. My guests were due at seven.

Waiting sucked. At six-thirty, antsy with anticipation, I tiptoed to the closet, quietly pulled out the mason jar, and unscrewed the golden lid. Holding my nose with one hand, I forced myself to take a big gulp of the pale amber potion. I exhaled dramatically, breathing fire. I tucked the jar back beneath the pile of dirty socks and T-shirts, shut the door, and checked the mirror one last time. My mouth was numb from the alcohol as I tried to smear my favorite root-beer-flavored Bonne Bell gloss over my tingling lips. I smiled at the image of myself staring back at me, gave her a confident wink and a nod, and squirted three quick shots of Binaca into my mouth. Game on.

A moment before seven, a squeal of brakes announced the arrival of the boys. I ran to the front door and peered through the peephole. Jared’s dad drove a Porsche 911. When the coupe roared to a stop in front of our house, Jared bounced out, followed by Mitch and Tyler. My heart leaped a bit when I saw them, though whether it was Jared who caused this reaction or the huge shot I’d just taken was anybody’s guess. I opened the door wide, giving what I hoped was a self-assured grin. “Hi,” I managed.

Kara and Cathy arrived just as the boys were entering the house. They were wearing matching pink Polos, and their hair was pulled back in identical ponytails, secured with giant pink tassels. It was an unfortunate choice; as popular as they were, they looked a little too much like a pair of dorky twins that night. I was relieved. It’s always reassuring to see flaws in “perfect ­people.” Girls are taught early on to be relentlessly competitive with one another, and I was no better than anyone else when it came to the comparison game. But as they drew closer, my judgment quickly turned back to envy. I couldn’t believe it. They were wearing matching diamond earrings! Despite my pleas, my mother still hadn’t let me pierce my ears.

But with only three hours to party, I decided to let my insecurities go. Everyone had to be out by 10:00 p.m. The only other rules my father insisted upon were that the lights needed to stay on and my bedroom door needed to remain unlocked. I’d thought it all through and was well prepared. We could still get a lot done within those limitations.

I wanted to get this party started, so I directed everyone into my room and told Jared to put on Van Halen. I ran back to the kitchen and collected my carefully prepared hors d’oeuvres. Salami, cheese, and crackers on one plate and Hostess Ho Hos (my favorite) on another. I balanced them together with two six-packs of Tab hanging from my fingers, and as I made my way back down the hallway, I heard the whir of the turntable, a slight hiss, and then David Lee Roth’s voice open “Ice Cream Man.” Jared was a boy who dug the blues.

“Okay, I got the goods,” I announced, placing the plates on my desk and discreetly adjusting the jeans that kept riding up my butt. “Now . . . who would like a cocktail?” It was a line I’d prepared, knowing that it would give me instant clout. I knew what this little group wanted, and not only was I going to give it to them, I was going to give it to them with style.

The line worked. Everyone grinned. I told Jared to stand guard at the door as I turned up the music and poured the contents of the mason jar into plastic cups.

“Straight up or mixed?” I asked each guest in turn, diluting the booze with cola for those who chose the second option. I felt high, my heart pounding; I was on a roll. The party was on. The Binaca spray was close by, as was the food. If a parent came in and we had to cover for ourselves, we knew just what to do. With the drinks in hand, I surveyed the group and experienced a rush of accomplishment. It felt so good to belong.

Mitch turned off the overhead light, leaving only my desk lamp on to comply with my dad’s rule. We drank the first drink together. “One, two, three, bull’s-eye!” The first person to drain his or her glass got to start the game we all knew we were there to play: Truth or Dare. Mitch won, and dared Jared to French-kiss me. And off we all went.

The hours passed in a blur. We paired off quickly: Jared and I took the top bunk, Mitch and Cathy got cozy down below, and Tyler and Kara stayed on the floor. We moved from our places only to get fresh shots and to change the music. Hardly anyone spoke. After a while my face was raw from making out and my jaw hurt from keeping my mouth open for so long. It didn’t seem to matter. I loved lying next to Jared, feeling him against me. It was as if I’d thought about this forever and part of me couldn’t believe that it was finally happening. Our clothes stayed on, of course. While we were wild kids on one level, we were all pretty innocent on another. I was barely thirteen.

A loud knock at the door startled me. “Carré? Carré! Open this door. Now.” My father’s voice rose above the sound of “Back in Black” on its third or fourth rotation.

I was disoriented. The room was dark, my skin was clammy, my hair was plastered to my neck and forehead. I felt vaguely nauseous. “Let’s go, Carré,” Jared whispered, helping me down from the top bunk. “Be cool,” he said softly, deftly unwrapping and then popping a Ho Ho into my mouth. “Keep eating.” And with a wink and an achingly sweet smile, Jared pushed me toward the increasingly impatient sound of my dad’s voice. The boy was smooth. The light from the hallway flooded into the room as soon as I opened the door. I had this weird feeling of being under arrest. “Hey, Daddy,” I managed. My father just looked at me, his brows furrowed again. I swallowed quickly and flashed him my best smile, letting him know I was so happy he’d let me throw this party. Though we’d never said it aloud, there seemed to be an unspoken understanding that this was his penance for things he failed to be or do while drinking. My smile was meant to remind him of that. But my grin was drunken, too, and my teeth were caked with chocolate Ho Hos. My father simply shook his head and reached his hand inside the room, flicking the light switch back on.

“I said lights on, Carré. Is that understood?” He wasn’t trying to be mean, but it came out harsher than he probably intended. My father always seemed so uncertain of what role to play or what tone to take. Boys were in my room, it was dark, and it was obvious enough that we’d been drinking. So he was firm, but this time it felt like he was overcompensating for the increasingly frequent times when he hadn’t been attentive to what was going on with me.

He turned on his heel and headed down the hall, staggering slightly. “Anyway,” he muttered, “it’s time for you all to go home. Party’s over, kids.” Grasping the handrail carefully, he made his way back down the stairs to the basement.

Though my father and I were the serious drinkers in the family, we weren’t the only partiers. As she got into high school, Chrisse started to host some mixers of her own. One warm summer evening in 1982, she threw a party that changed my life. My parents were away on one of their weekend vacations, taking some time to work on their marriage as best they could and to have a break from us, too. We had the house to ourselves. And, of course, to anyone else my sister chose to invite.

It was a Saturday night. A warm wind gently rustled the old oak tree that sheltered our suburban home. I was out back on the redwood deck, listening to the sounds of laughter and shrieks coming from the downstairs room that had become my sister’s sanctuary. Elvis Costello ballads poured from Chrisse’s new stereo system, and the steady crack and fizz of beer cans being opened could be heard from where I was. I sat in the dusk, debating whether I could get away with joining the older crowd of high school students who had infiltrated my playroom. I let a few more minutes pass, and then on a dare to myself I ventured in.

I wasn’t there to socialize. I was there to snag some beer from the coolers on the basement floor. Although I wasn’t that far from their age group, this wasn’t really my crowd. They knew it, and so did I.

I had on my favorite Ditto jeans and a purple alligator shirt. Purple was my color. On some days I dressed head to toe in it, mixing up the uniform with only a rainbow ribbon tied around my head to hold back my long brown hair. It was my fashion statement. I felt put together and special in it. It completed me, like carrying a lucky charm or a rabbit’s foot.

Unnoticed, I waltzed over to the ice chest and pulled out a Michelob. I’ll just enjoy this in my room, I told myself. At the time, I was too shy to move to the music the way the other girls did. Some danced with partners, some alone. They grooved and swayed with a freedom and ease I had yet to experience with my body. A part of me just wanted to sit and stare for a while, to be a fly on the wall and gather clues about how to be comfortable in my own skin. But the risk was too great. I couldn’t chance my sister busting me for just hanging out at her party and publicly humiliating me. In all fairness, this was not my turf. Even living under the same roof, there were spots that were definitely off-limits. The basement—at least when Chrisse and her friends were there—was one of those places.

So I went back to my room and sat alone in the dim green light cast by my digital alarm clock. I raised the beer to my mouth and chugged. I was drinking not for the taste but for the delicious feeling that trickled down my neck and shoulders, relaxing every knot of tension along the way. As the beer flowed, I shuddered. It was like that divine moment when I’d stand over the heater in the early morning and the chill would give way to a sublime warmth. I took another swig, trying to lengthen my swallows. I’d been taught that I could get more down if I just loosened up my throat.

Two gulps in and my eyes fell onto my most prized possession, a ceramic unicorn that sat on a piece of purple velvet fabric on my shelf. I reached out to touch the cool arch of its back, the graceful point of its horn, and launched into a fantasy that took me far, far away to a place of willow trees and brooks, grassy knolls, and a tall blond knight in shining armor. I yawned dreamily. It was time to either sleep or make another risky trip downstairs for more beer. I crept back down the steps in the hope that I would remain unnoticed.

I wouldn’t be lucky twice.

Chrisse zeroed in on me, digging her nails into my arm as she pulled me aside. “Just what do you think you’re doing?’ she hissed. “Get lost, Carré. Now!”

I was dismissed, as quickly as that. I could have been dying for all she knew, or have been delivering some important information to her, but she couldn’t have cared less. I bit back the anger. I needed to stay cool.

“I’m going, I’m going. I just left some homework down here,” I said expertly. I knew how to lie, even to a suspicious older sister. And I knew how to do it effectively. Especially if it meant I could get my hands on some more alcohol.

“Whatever . . . just do it already and get lost!” With that she turned and hurried back to her hard-partying guests. That was my cue. I raced to the cooler and pulled out not one, not two, but three beers. Fast as lightning I slid them under my shirt and bolted back up the stairs, two at a time.

Safely in my own space again, I decided to put one of my records on to drown out the thumping noise below. My room felt like a cocoon now, completely detached from the rest of the house and its inhabitants. At the same time, I secretly longed to be part of the crowd downstairs, laughing and flirting and moving to the rhythm of the music as effortlessly as the others. I wished my name weren’t Carré, but something more common, like Jane or Linda. I wished that I had long blond hair and soft, pale skin. Sometimes I’d imagine what my life would be like if I’d been born somewhere else, to another family, with another sister and brother. I imagined a different set of parents, with a mom who stayed home and helped me with my homework and lovingly brushed my hair before bedtime and with a dad who didn’t drink. But I knew the odds of that happening were nil. The closest I would ever come to that existence was in my head.

Since I knew in my heart that I would never fit in with the crowd downstairs either, I dropped Sticky Fingers onto the turntable and cranked up the volume. That did the trick. I couldn’t hear a thing. Another beer and I had completely disappeared into a strange, fuzzy world of my own, an ever-more-distant place. But one still defined by the simple desires of a not-so-simple thirteen-year-old girl.

An hour or so must have gone by. I slouched in my chair, drunkenly staring at the pile of stickers I had successfully divided into categories. There were the “scratch ’n’ sniffs,” the “glitters,” and then my favorites, the “puffy” stickers. They were made of soft, padded plastic, and my collection of them was impressive. I had Hello Kitty, peace signs, rainbows, and moonbeams. I had unicorns, slogans, kissing lips, and I also had a cola bottle. But divvying them up and arranging them had gotten old quickly. I was tired and bored. I needed to move. The buzz from the beer had worn off, and I decided I needed more. Time for one last run.

As I shoved myself away from the desk, my chair toppled over behind me, and I giggled stupidly as I attempted to right it. “Ooops,” I said, speaking to no one in particular. I knew I needed to get myself together before I tried my luck again at the coolers. But chances were that everyone else downstairs was getting as goofy as I was, and that meant that my success rate had potentially improved. I fumbled in my pocket for a piece of gum, I brushed my bangs out of my eyes, and I slowly opened my bedroom door.

Something felt different in the house. Things had quieted down, and there was a hush in the air. The music that came from below was now slower, moodier. The overpowering smell of cigarettes and pot hung in the air and clung to the walls, and I wondered to myself how the hell Chrisse would manage to explain that to our parents when they came home the next day. Standing in my doorway, I was suddenly aware how full my bladder was from all the beer I’d drunk. Deciding to use my parents’ bathroom, I closed my door carefully behind me and stepped out into the hall.

Their room was just a few steps away. I used my “superglide” to move along the floor silently. Once I reached their blue shag carpet, I tiptoed to the bathroom door. Why was I being so quiet? So on guard? Sneaking about made even the simplest tasks much more exciting. I felt as if I were fine-tuning some skill I might need later as an adult.

When I finally made it to my parents’ bathroom, I switched on the light and raced to the toilet, forgetting to close the door behind me. By this point I had to pee so badly that as soon as my butt hit porcelain, I let loose in a flood of ecstasy. Phew, I thought. That was close.

And then I saw him.

He was at the bathroom door, one hand on the knob, one foot still in my parents’ bedroom, staring at me with a strange, sheepish grin on his face. He was Chad, a senior at a neighboring school. He was popular, and he flaunted it. Lots of girls had the hots for him, my sister among them.

Seeing Chad standing there, I immediately stopped peeing. I wanted to die of embarrassment. I was frozen. My face must have blanched, because Chad quickly stepped all the way into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. His fingers found the lock in an instant, and I heard him jiggle the knob to test it.

“What . . . what the fuck are you doing?” I stammered. It was a huge effort to get these words out. They didn’t sound as tough as I wanted them to sound, but it was a strain to speak at all. I reached down to pull up my panties, trying to cover myself as quickly as possible.

I wasn’t fast enough. Chad lunged toward me, grabbing my hand before I could yank up my underwear. “Don’t,” he said. “They’re cute. . . . You’re cute.”

What the hell does that mean? I wondered.

“No, I mean, just let me . . . get them . . . up!” I squawked. Part of me was furious with myself for not handling this better while another part of me was shocked that Chad, the boy so many girls wanted (including my sister), was after me. What more should I want? Terror and confusion mixed with the sense that this was some important opportunity I shouldn’t blow, and yet I didn’t know how not to blow it. My heart was pounding a million miles an hour, my stomach doing triple flips. I was frozen, my hands still on my panties, his hand on mine.

Without ever letting go of me, Chad pulled me up off the toilet and backed me into the corner. I could smell the alcohol on him. For the first time, I realized how drunk he was. “You have little titties, don’t you?” he said, laughing softly to himself. I cringed. “I bet you don’t even have any hair down there. Come on, baby, let Chad take a little look.” With that, he pulled up my shirt, forcing my hand away, defeating my best attempt to block his view. Chad studied me.

“Oooh, baby, a bald eagle!” He whooped and slapped his thigh, as if this were the funniest discovery he’d ever made. I felt light-headed and queasy. I wondered if I were about to be sick. Despite my efforts, tears of shame started rolling down my cheeks. I could taste the salt.

“Well . . . let’s see how you like this. A taste of the goods to come.” Then he pushed his hand between my thighs and gave me the finger. I froze. Next, he raised his hand to his mouth, taking one long, slow, dramatic suck of what had just been inside me. “Nice and easy, little girl,” he said as his hand disappeared again and I felt it poking, groping between my legs.

“Spread those legs open a little more, soldier.” He kicked my left leg open wider; I nearly fell to one side. Soldier? Off balance and unprotected, I had nothing with which to stop him as he made his move again, pushing more of his fingers inside me. I felt a sharp pain ripping through my center.

A screeching gasp of breath escaped my mouth, my head banging back against the wall as I furiously tried to move my feet and body away from his. But Chad’s big shoes were on my feet, and the crushing weight pinned me in place. At the same time, his hand nearly lifted me off the ground from the sheer force he used as he shoved it deeper into me. He panted and groaned as he pushed himself against me.

“You like it, baby girl. You like it, little slut,” he repeated over and over.

The tears were now rolling, big and salty as they hit my lips. But I made no more noise. I refused to speak. It actually never even occurred to me that I could, and not once did I say no or stop.

Chad rubbed his jeans against me, pushing and jerking and grunting, until, finally, he gave a long, groaning exhale. I felt a shudder go through him, and he dropped away from me. Just like that, his hand was out and I could feel a place where my insides were torn.

Without looking me once in the eye Chad lifted his hand and once again took a long sniff. “Now, that stinks like a baby’s butt, little girl. Didn’t your mama teach you how to wash?” Before his laughter died, he turned and walked back out of the bathroom.

And I collapsed onto the open toilet, my favorite purple panties still down around my ankles. I was numb. I was silent. I could feel my mouth drawn in a tight little line, and I didn’t want to let it go for fear I would make a sound . . . and that once I did, the sounds that erupted would not stop.

I tried to relax my bladder to finish my pee. I could feel a searing pain burning inside me. And that’s when I began to cry. Throwing my arms around my knees and falling forward, I rested my chest against my legs. My whole body shuddered with the pain, the despair, the terror.

Wiping myself carefully, I lifted my panties back up. I felt how much this hurt, too, having them there against my skin. I pulled up my cords and, leaving the zipper undone, moved silently back down the hall to my room. Locking the door behind me, I found the ladder of my bunk bed in the dark and climbed up, into the safe arms of my stuffed animals, the soft, feathery down of my pillows and their familiar sweet scent. I didn’t wipe the tears from my eyes or the snot from my nose, even though it made big booger bubbles with each breath I choked out.

It is here I finally let go, and between my moans and coughs and shame, I fitfully fell asleep.

What happened to me with Chad would shape my sexual relationships for years to come. Like so many other victims of sexual abuse, I blamed and second-guessed myself. I had lost my voice when I needed it most and been unable to protect myself from what happened. That pattern of voicelessness would return again and again, as would the victimization at the hands of men. It would take me nearly twenty-five years to heal from the cycle that began that night in my parents’ bathroom.

But this “voicelessness” with men didn’t mean I turned into a silent girl in every other area of my life. In the aftermath of my assault, my anger and pain over that and other issues began to manifest outwardly in bursts of unpredictable behavior. My acting out took place mostly at school. I soon became very familiar with the yellow walls and the woven earth-toned tapestries that decorated the small office of the school counselor, Ms. Tinder.

On my last day at MCDS, my mother had dropped me off as usual. I’d begged her not to step out of the car and expose her too-short miniskirt, knee-high socks, and Birkenstocks to my world, and on that day at least she gave in to my pleas. Having narrowly escaped embarrassment in front of my friends, I grabbed my backpack, said a quick good-bye, and instead of going to homeroom I snuck around to the back of the auditorium and waited for some of the older girls to arrive.

Jennifer and Tracy were eighth-graders and outcasts, too. They were the first and last friends I would make at MCDS. I saw in them the kind of potential that I sensed in myself. They were rebels eager to buck the system, troublemakers, and oddballs. They found the same ways as I did to carve a niche for themselves within that privileged environment. We all knew that quietly flying under the radar would get us by. We shared a lack of interest in school and an awareness of what little we had in common with our popular, promising, praiseworthy classmates. Jennifer, Tracy, and I also shared a smoking habit. And after waiting for the first bell to ring, we slipped into the upper school’s bathroom, pulled out a few cigarettes, and lit up.

We were asking for trouble. Tracy swore that the smoke would be gone before anyone else came in, but I think we all knew we were taking a huge risk. Predictably, we were busted. Caught puffing away by the headmaster himself. Within minutes I was back in the familiar confines of the counselor’s office. In trouble again.

Ms. Tinder turned to face me. Her pretty brown hair was swept away from her face, and a light coat of mauve lipstick had just been applied to her lips. She was impeccably dressed as always.

“What have we gotten ourselves into, Carré?” she inquired with a steady but calm look in her eyes. It wasn’t the first time she’d asked that question. As on previous occasions, I could only gaze at the floor, my cheeks slowly reddening. The truth was, I didn’t know why I kept getting into trouble. I had no answer for her, only a strange and terrible mix of regret and fear. I was desperately sad, and I truly wanted to communicate that to her. But today, like so many other times, the words wouldn’t come. What’s the point? I asked myself. This woman isn’t going to understand. My walls stood tall.

But I had to say or do something. I could feel Ms. Tinder’s expec-tant patience wearing thin. I took a deep breath. This one’s for you, I thought, silently addressing myself to no one and everyone all at once. A nasty smile spread across my face as I lifted my right hand and boldly went where no student in the history of MCDS had dared to go before. My middle finger shot up, and with it I raised a defiant gaze to meet Ms. Tinder’s shocked expression. She froze for a moment, then tilted her head to one side, studying me. With a sigh of both exasperation and decisiveness, she picked up the phone, never once breaking eye contact, and pressed the button for her secretary.

“Please call Carré’s parents immediately. She is expelled and must be promptly escorted off campus.” And with that, the receiver was gently placed back on its cradle and I was dismissed to sit in the hall.

My mother said nothing to me. I had nothing to say to her either. We just rode in silence side by side back to Greenbrae. As soon as we got home, I raced once more to the safety of my room and listened for the sound of my father’s old Plymouth rolling up the driveway. I heard my mother talking on the phone to someone, hysteria in her voice. I caught every few words. “Expelled . . . out of control . . . I can no longer . . .” I was numb to it all.

Chrisse opened my door and stuck her head in. “You stupid thing, Carré! You really fucked it all up, didn’t you?” Then she slammed the door without waiting for a reply. I rolled to face the wall and pulled the blankets over my head. I wish I were dead, I thought. The anxiety about what would happen next was making me drowsy, as if by going to sleep I could slip away from the consequences of what I’d done.

When my father arrived, I listened for what his footsteps might reveal. Had he been drinking? Had he heard the news yet? And as soon as the front door slammed, I decided upon both. He knew. And he had been drinking. I heard him shout, “Get her out of her room! In the kitchen—now!”

I didn’t even wait for the messenger to deliver his words. I flung myself over my bunk, using the rail for leverage, and landed with a thump on the rug. I left the door to my room open behind me and tried to stand up straight and tall as I walked down the stairs and entered the kitchen.

They were both standing there, Mom leaning against the counter and Dad with a beer in hand, one arm raised to loosen the tie around his neck. That tie had been a gift from me a few years back. By now it had faded in color from a rich fern green to a hue that no longer flattered him, especially on that night.

“Jesus Christ! What the hell have you done?” he demanded, a wild look in his eye as if I had humiliated him in front of the world. He didn’t want an explanation, and drunk as he was, he was beyond reasoning with. I felt betrayed. I wanted to break him, tear at him, make him stop judging me and become the ally who’d been missing since the day we moved into this horrible house. The day he started withdrawing deeper and deeper into that wretched basement liquor cabinet of his. If anyone in the world could understand why I had done what I’d done, it should have been him. But my father was lost to me at that moment and at so many others before then. Lost in his own pain and rage—a rage that unintentionally fueled mine, too. “What the fuck, Daddy?” I shrieked. “What the fuck is your problem?”

And with that, he slapped me. Hard. My father had never laid a hand on me before, but I had goaded him beyond his limit. As angry as we both were, the blow was shatteringly unexpected. I fell back, landing in a heap at the base of the stove. I remember my sister racing to my side, gently reaching out her hand to help me up, and softly pushing me down the hall and into the abyss of my room.

As I lay in bed, a hand to my swollen, tear-streaked face, a memory came to me. It was from a few years earlier, not long after I’d been diagnosed with dyslexia. I was nine, perhaps ten.

It was December, almost time for winter break. The days were getting darker earlier and earlier. As the sun began to set in the cold blue sky, slipping behind the western ridge of Mount Tamalpais, I’d raced from school, up the long hill and into the warmth of home. As I passed the Landons’ house, I saw my father’s car in our driveway and felt a sudden rush of excitement. I knew well by then that if it was early enough in the day, I’d have some time with the “old Dad,” the one who existed before the booze, the one who was—and still sometimes could be—present in the moment. The Daddy I needed and longed for so desperately.

I was led to him by the sounds of crumpling newspaper in the living room, as he rolled pieces of the Marin Independent Journal to stoke a fire. His back was to me as I walked in, and I watched him quietly for a moment as he reached first for a poker and then for a small broom to sweep away stray ash. I walked up behind him, stretching my arms their full length so I could place them around his burly shoulders. He turned halfway toward me and smiled, placing a free hand to meet mine, patting it lovingly. He was still sober. My body tingled with relief.

Although still in his work clothes, he was rumpled from his day and his long commute home. His hair, the subject of our incessant teasing, rose up in what he called his “Jewfro,” an unruly and wildly dark, thick halo. His familiar Dad smell mixed wonderfully with the scent of wood smoke. It was comforting beyond words.

I stepped back, and as I plopped onto our old couch, Draco, our dog, shimmied up to me, wagged his big butt, and nuzzled in for a scratch. Crackling pops and hisses escaped from the fire. Satisfied that it would burn for hours, my father stood and turned toward the records lining the wooden shelves beside him, reading their labels aloud as he scanned the selection. “What will it be?” he asked. “The Beatles? Simon & Garfunkel? Carly Simon?” This was a rare but familiar moment, and I beamed at him, knowing immediately what he wanted me to say.

“Beatles, Papa. Let’s have the Beatles!” I was up on my feet now, skipping toward him, ready and eager for what I knew was coming. Daddy slipped the shiny black disc from between the covers, then carefully held the edges with his thumbs and forefingers as he ceremoniously blew on one side, then expertly flipped it to blow on the other. Of course there was no dust, since no one was permitted to touch his records but him, and he treated all of them like gold.

He positioned the record on the turntable, gently dropped the needle into place on the third track. I waited, eyes shut, counting down for the crackle that always preceded the music by an instant.

Picture yourself in a boat on a river

 

My father motioned for me, holding his arms up and out as an invitation for me to come closer to him, to place my feet atop his and begin our waltz around the living room, which for the moment was our very own magical dance floor.

Somebody calls you, you answer quite slowly.

 

My eyes locked onto his, trying to impress upon him the deep love and need I had for these very moments. How I tried to hold their gaze. How they were like the flavors of my favorite dessert. It was far better even than Mom’s chocolate mousse. I would have given anything to be suspended forever in that moment. For time to stand still. As he lifted his feet and mine, we waltzed back and forth, in sync with each other and the music. He held me firmly in the safe arms of a father, and I let my eyes close and my head fall back in absolute trust. Remember this, I thought. Burn this memory forever in your heart.

When I looked up again, I saw tears in my father’s eyes. And I knew he felt it, too. We each had an innate understanding of how much this dance meant. This one moment seemed to have more than made up for all the disappointments, all the betrayals, and all the broken promises. I held on to this experience tightly, in the hope that I could call on the memory of it later. I wanted to be able to recall the true nature of this precious man who just by taking a few steps with me had lifted me up and showed his love for me so dearly.

Even after he sent me sprawling to the floor, I would remember this moment. And I would remember it again later, when another man I loved so much did the same.

I slept that night with my hand to my cheek and my wounded heart pressed to my ratty old stuffed rabbit. Someday I will get out, I promised myself. Please, God, let it be soon.

Although MCDS had been around for twenty-five years, it turns out that I was the first student ever to be expelled from it. Rumors about what I’d done spread rapidly. My mother swears that the real reason for my expulsion was the school’s inability to cope with my severe dyslexia, but that’s not what the story was on the street. Everyone in Marin seemed to have heard about it. I saw the looks and heard the whispers. Privately, I thought there was only one way I could survive—and that was to give up. I decided that I was damaged goods, untouchable and unsalvageable. I saw it as a plain and simple truth, like a fact you find in a math book. I no longer fretted over it. Once in a while, a sharp pang of sadness would seize me, but for the most part I was filled with a steely resignation, just as I’d been whenever a teacher would place a test in front of me. No answer of mine ever fit in the endless columns of check boxes. I already knew that I would fail, so with some disconnected sense of duty I made it look as if I’d tried, randomly filling in those dots and creating patterns that zigzagged in all directions. Still, a faint hope lingered that by some stroke of luck I might just get a few right. But I rarely passed.

My parents laid down the law with me. After the MCDS debacle, I would be going to Kent Middle School, the county’s largest public junior high. My life was to be focused solely on education, not on socializing. Everyone I knew from MCDS was off-limits, and my phone privileges were suspended indefinitely as well. Not that I had many friends from there that I wanted to keep. Secretly I was happy to be moving on, glad to make a clean break from everyone and everything. It was then, too, that my parents sent me to see my first therapist, Dr. Nathalie O’Bourne. Twice a week for an hour, her office was the one refuge I had from the world and my growing depression. But despite even Dr. O’s help, I was withdrawing quickly, distancing myself from my family, friends, and life itself. I felt like a snail that had just had salt poured all over it. I wanted the pain to stop, and if receding into my shell did the trick, then so be it.

I may not have been the only girl to feel neglected or to struggle with dyslexia or the aftermath of sexual assault, but I was the only one I knew of. At Kent I did enough to get by. At home, like so many middle children, I found it easy to disappear. Alcohol was one comfort. Increasingly, boys were another. Until I moved beyond boys.

I had just turned fourteen when I met Elliott. He was working a birthday party at which I was a guest. His family owned a novelty gift store called Balloon Dreams, and he drove the company van. I still remember the image of balloons painted on the side and the cheery slogan promising a personalized delivery. Lots of girls had the hots for him: He was wiry, with dark, curly hair, a dead ringer for INXS’s Michael Hutchence, a resemblance he made every effort to exploit. He was also thirty years old.

When Elliott left the party to return to his van, I followed and stopped him with a question: “Got a cigarette?”

He turned, cocked his head to one side. Squinted at me and asked, “How old are you?”

“Sixteen,” I lied. But as the blood rushed to my cheeks, exposing my lie, I decided to come clean. “Fourteen, really.” I shrugged, letting my shoulders fall dramatically. And waited.

Elliott just looked at me. His gaze made my heart lurch and my skin grow warmer. No other girl my age I knew of would have followed Elliott like that. But I was bolder. By now I knew the allure I had. I might not have been confident in other areas of my life, but my desirability was rising on a very short list of the things I could trust. “Getting Elliott” was now my project. I knew that our age difference made us off-limits to each other. In my parents’ eyes, my having a relationship with a male of any age was unacceptable. While that made the challenge more appealing, it was still terrifying.

As we stared at each other, I slowly fingered the unicorn medallion that hung around my neck on a thin silver chain, twirling it, then lifting it to my lips. I knew that the ball remained in my court. So I pressed: “What about that cigarette?”

I could see he was intrigued. More than intrigued, he was fascinated. But also appalled and unnerved. I had him believing that I knew what I wanted—and that what I wanted was dangerous. Taboo. Forbidden. Pulling a pack of Marlboro Reds from his back pocket, he expertly shook one to the surface and held it out for me. Without fumbling, I took the cigarette, placing it between my teeth, all the while continuing to hold his gaze. I thought of Debra Winger in Urban Cowboy and waited for my man to light me up.

“I don’t get somethin